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In The Lives Of The Saddest Of Us, There Are Bright Days Like This, When We Feel As If We Could Take The Great World In Our Arms And Kiss It. Then Come The Gloomy Hours, When The Fire Will Neither Burn On Our Hearths Nor In Our Hearts; And All Without And Within Is Dismal, Cold, And Dark. Believe Me, Every Heart Has Its Secret Sorrows, Which The World Knows Not, And Oftentimes We Call A Man Cold, When He Is Only Sad.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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In The Lives Of

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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In The Lives Of The Saddest Of Us, There Are Bright Days Like This, When We Feel As If We Could Take The Great World In Our Arms And Kiss It. Then Come The Gloomy Hours, When The Fire Will Neither Burn On Our Hearths Nor In Our Hearts; And All Without And Within Is Dismal, Cold, And Dark. Believe Me, Every Heart Has Its Secret Sorrows, Which The World Knows Not, And Oftentimes We Call A Man Cold, When He Is Only Sad.

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I Have An Affection For A Great City. I Feel Safe In The Neighborhood Of Man, And Enjoy The Sweet Security Of The Streets.

Love Makes Its Record In Deeper Colors As We Grow Out Of Childhood Into Manhood; As The Emperors Signed Their Names In Green Ink When Under Age, But When Of Age, In Purple.

Nothing Useless Is, Or Low; Each Thing In Its Place Is Best; And What Seems But Idle Show Strengthens And Supports The Rest.

Many Critics Are Like Woodpeckers, Who, Instead Of Enjoying The Fruit And Shadow Of A Tree, Hop Incessantly Around The Trunk, Pecking Holes In The Bark To Discover Some Little Worm Or Other.

The Holiest Of All Holidays Are Those Kept By Ourselves In Silence And Apart; The Secret Anniversaries Of The Heart, When The Full River Of Feeling Overflows;- The Happy Days Unclouded To Their Close; The Sudden Joys That Our Of Darkness Start As Flames From Ashes; Swift Desires That Dart Like Swallows Singing Down Each Wind That Blows!

How Beautiful The Silent Hour, When Morning And Evening Thus Sit Together, Hand In Hand, Beneath The Starless Sky Of Midnight!

Ah, The Souls Of Those That Die Are But Sunbeams Lifted Higher.

A Life That Is Worth Writing At All Is Worth Writing Minutely.

From Dust Thou Art To Dust Returneth, Was Not Spoken Of The Soul.

There's Not A Ship That Sails The Ocean, But Every Climate, Every Soil, Must Bring Its Tribute, Great Or Small, And Help To Build The Wooden Wall!

The Student Has His Rome, His Florence, His Whole Glowing Italy, Within The Four Walls Of His Library. He Has In His Books The Ruins Of An Antique World And The Glories Of A Modern One.

Then Stars Arise, And The Night Is Holy.

The Morrow Was A Bright September Morn; The Earth Was Beautiful As If Newborn; There Was Nameless Splendor Everywhere, That Wild Exhilaration In The Air, Which Makes The Passers In The City Street Congratulate Each Other As They Meet.

Thought Takes Man Out Of Servitude, Into Freedom.

Let Him Not Boast Who Puts His Armor On As He Who Puts It Off, The Battle Done.

After A Day Of Cloud And Wind And Rain Sometimes The Setting Sun Breaks Out Again, And Touching All The Darksome Woods With Light, Smiles On The Fields Until They Laugh And Sing, Then Like A Ruby From The Horizon's Ring, Drops Down Into The Night.

How Beautiful Is The Rain! After The Dust And The Heat, In The Broad And Fiery Street, In The Narrow Lane, How Beautiful Is The Rain!

Be Noble In Every Thought And In Every Deed!

The Human Voice Is The Organ Of The Soul.

I Like That Ancient Saxon Phrase, Which Calls The Burial-ground God's-acre! It Is Just; It Consecrates Each Grave Within Its Walls, And Breathes A Benison O'er The Sleeping Dust.

Look, Then, Into Thine Heart, And Write! Yes, Into Life's Deep Stream! All Forms Of Sorrow And Delight, All Solemn Voices Of The Night, That Can Soothe Thee, Or Affright, - Be These Henceforth Thy Theme. (excerpt From "voices Of The Night")

Often Times We Call A Man [or Woman] Cold When He [or She] Is Only Sad.

Man Is Always More Than He Can Know Of Himself; Consequently, His Accomplishments, Time And Again, Will Come As A Surprise To Him.

How Wonderful Is The Human Voice! It Is Indeed The Organ Of The Soul. The Intellect Of Man Is Enthroned Visibly On His Forehead And In His Eye, And The Heart Of Man Is Written On His Countenance, But The Soul, The Soul Reveals Itself In The Voice Only.

It Is Folly To Pretend That One Ever Wholly Recovers From A Disappointed Passion. Such Wounds Always Leave A Scar. There Are Faces I Can Never Look Upon Without Emotion, There Are Names I Can Never Hear Spoken Without Almost Starting.

Even Cities Have Their Graves!

The Soul...is Audible, Not Visible.

A Great Sorrow, Like A Mariner's Quadrant, Brings The Sun At Noon Down To The Horizon, And We Learn Where We Are On The Sea Of Life.

These Stars Of Earth, These Golden Flowers.

So Nature Deals With Us, And Takes Away Our Playthings One By One, And By The Hand Leads Us To Rest So Gently, That We Go, Scarce Knowing If We Wish To Go Or Stay, Being Too Full Of Sleep To Understand How Far The Unknown Transcends The What We Know.

Evil Is Only Good Perverted.

Bell, Thou Soundest Merrily, When The Bridal Party To The Church Doth Hie! Bell, Thou Soundest Solemnly, When, On Sabbath Morning, Fields Deserted Lie!

Dead He Is Not, But Departed, For The Artist Never Dies.

Buried Was The Bloody Hatchet; Buried Was The Dreadful War-club; Buried Were All Warlike Weapons, And The War-cry Was Forgotten. Then Was Peace Among The Nations.

The Hearts Of Some Women Tremble Like Leaves At Every Breath Of Love Which Reaches Them, And They Are Still Again. Others, Like The Ocean, Are Moved Only By The Breath Of A Storm, And Not So Easily Lulled To Rest.

No Action, Whether Foul Or Fair, Is Ever Done, But It Leaves Somewhere A Record, Written By Fingers Ghostly, As A Blessing Or A Curse, And Mostly In The Greater Weakness Or Greater Strength Of The Acts Which Follow It.

Great Men Stand Like Solitary Towers In The City Of God.

No Literature Is Complete Until The Language It Was Written In Is Dead.

Saint Augustine! Well Hast Thou Said, That Of Our Vices We Can Frame A Ladder, If We Will But Tread Beneath Our Feet Each Deed Of Shame.

To-morrow! The Mysterious, Unknown Guest, Who Cries To Me: "remember Barmecide, And Tremble To Be Happy With The Rest." And I Make Answer: "i Am Satisfied; I Dare Not Ask; I Know Not What Is Best; God Hath Already Said What Shall Betide.

Very Hot And Still The Air Was, Very Smooth The Gliding River, Motionless The Sleeping Shadows.

Let Us Then, Be Up And Doing.

Silence And Solitude, The Soul's Best Friends.

More And More Do I Feel, As I Advance In Life, How Little We Really Know Of Each Other. Friendship Seems To Me Like The Touch Of Musical-glasses--it Is Only Contact; But The Glasses Themselves, And Their Contents, Remain Quite Distinct And Unmingled.

Not In The Clamor Of The Crowded Street, Not In The Shouts And Plaudits Of The Throng, But In Ourselves, Are Triumph And Defeat.

There Is No Flock, However Watched And Tended, But One Dead Lamb Is There! There Is No Fireside Howsoe'er Defended, But Has One Vacant Chair.

Age Is Opportunity No Less Than Youth Itself.

I See, But Cannot Reach, The Height That Lies Forever In The Light.

Tis Always Morning Somewhere.

I Am The Angel Of The Sun Whose Flaming Wheels Began To Run When God's Almighty Breath Said To The Darkness And The Night, Let There Be Light! And There Was Light.

Men Should Soon Make Up Their Minds To Be Forgotten, And Look About Them, Or Within Them, For Some Higher Motive In What They Do Than The Approbation Of Men, Which Is Fame, Namely, Their Duty; That They Should Be Constantly And Quietly At Work, Each In His Sphere, Regardless Of Effects, And Leaving Their Fame To Take Care Of Itself.

If Spring Came But Once A Century Instead Of Once A Year, Or Burst Forth With The Sound Of An Earthquake And Not In Silence, What Wonder And Expectation There Would Be In All The Hearts To Behold The Miraculous Change.

O Suffering, Sad Humanity! O Ye Afflicted Ones, Who Lie Steeped To The Lips In Misery, Longing, Yet Afraid To Die, Patient, Though Sorely Tried!

Critics Are Sentinels In The Grand Army Of Letters, Stationed At The Corners Of Newspapers And Reviews, To Challenge Every New Author.

Let Us, Then, Be What We Are; Speak What We Think; And In All Things Keep Ourselves Loyal To Truth.

In Ourselves Are Triumph And Defeat.

O Little Feet! That Such Long Years Must Wander On Through Hopes And Fears, Must Ache And Bleed Beneath Your Load; I, Nearer To The Wayside Inn Where Toil Shall Cease And Rest Begin, Am Weary, Thinking Of Your Road!

Thinking Of You

Never Idle A Moment, But Thrifty And Thoughtful Of Others.

See Yonder Little Cloud, That, Borne Aloft So Tenderly By The Wind, Floats Fast Away Over The Snowy Peaks!

I Feel A Kind Of Reverence For The First Books Of Young Authors. There Is So Much Aspiration In Them, So Much Audacious Hope And Trembling Fear, So Much Of The Heart's History, That All Errors And Shortcomings Are For A While Lost Sight Of In The Amiable Self Assertion Of Youth.

Intelligence And Courtesy Not Always Are Combined; Often In A Wooden House A Golden Room We Find.

For Bells Are The Voice Of The Church; They Have Tones That Touch And Search The Hearts Of Young And Old.

Fear Is The Virtue Of Slaves; But The Heart That Loveth Is Willing.

O Little Souls! As Pure As White And Crystalline As Rays Of Light Direct From Heaven, Their Source Divine; Refracted Through The Mist Of Years, How Red My Setting Sun Appears, How Lurid Looks This Soul Of Mine!

Life Is Real! Life Is Earnest! And The Grave Is Not Its Goal; Dust Thou Art, To Dust Returnest, Was Not Spoken Of The Soul.

Take Them, O Death! And Bear Away Whatever Thou Canst Call Thine Own! Thine Image, Stamped Upon This Clay, Doth Give Thee That, But That Alone!

My Soul Is Full Of Longing For The Secret Of The Sea

No Man Is So Poor As To Have Nothing Worth Giving.

In The Life Of Every Man There Are Sudden Transitions Of Feeling, Which Seem Almost Miraculous. At Once, As If Some Magician Had Touched The Heavens And The Earth, The Dark Clouds Melt Into The Air, The Wind Falls, And Serenity Succeeds The Storm. The Causes Which Produce These Changes May Have Been Long At Work Within Us, But The Changes Themselves Are Instantaneous, And Apparently Without Sufficient Cause.

Let Nothing Disturb Thee, Nothing Affright Thee; All Things Are Passing; God Never Changeth; Patient Endurance Attaineth To All Things; Who God Possesseth In Nothing Is Wanting; Alone God Sufficeth.

Under A Spreading Chestnut-tree The Village Smithy Stands; The Smith, A Mighty Man Is He, With Large And Sinewy Hands; And The Muscles Of His Brawny Arms Are Strong As Iron Bands.

Joy, Temperance, And Repose, Slam The Door On The Doctor's Nose.

Every Dew-drop And Rain-drop Had A Whole Heaven Within It.

Winter Giveth The Fields, And The Trees So Old, Their Beards Of Icicles And Snow.

With Useless Endeavour Forever, Forever, Is Sisyphus Rolling His Stone Up The Mountain!

It Has Done Me Good To Be Somewhat Parched By The Heat And Drenched By The Rain Of Life.

A Thought Often Makes Us Hotter Than A Fire.

Love Makes Its Record In Deeper Colors As We Grow Out Of Childhood Into Manhood.

Weak Minds Make Treaties With The Passions They Cannot Overcome, And Try To Purchase Happiness At The Expense Of Principle; But The Resolute Will Of A Strong Man Scorns Such Means, And Struggles Nobly With His Foe To Achieve Great Deeds.

It Is Curious To Note The Old Sea-margins Of Human Thought! Each Subsiding Century Reveals Some New Mystery; We Build Where Monsters Used To Hide Themselves.

Does Not All The Blood Within Me Leap To Meet Thee, Leap To Meet Thee, As The Springs To Meet The Sunshine.

Spake Full Well, In Language Quaint And Olden, One Who Dwelleth By The Castled Rhine, When He Called The Flowers, So Blue And Golden, Stars, That In Earth's Firmament Do Shine.

Were Half The Power That Fills The World With Terror, Were Half The Wealth Bestowed On Camps And Courts, Given To Redeem The Human Mind From Error, There Were No Need Of Arsenals Or Forts.

The Holiest Of Holidays Are Those Kept By Ourselves In Silence And Apart; The Secret Anniversaries Of The Heart.

The Spring Came Suddenly, Bursting Upon The World As A Child Bursts Into A Room, With A Laugh And A Shout And Hands Full Of Flowers.

Is This Is A Dream? O, If It Be A Dream, Let Me Sleep On, And Do Not Wake Me Yet!

Fame Comes Only When Deserved, And Then Is As Inevitable As Destiny, For It Is Destiny.

The Gentle Wind, A Sweet And Passionate Wooer, Kisses The Blushing Leaf.

Truths That Startled The Generation In Which They Were First Announced Become In The Next Age The Commonplaces Of Conversation; As The Famous Airs Of Operas Which Thrilled The First Audiences Come To Be Played On Hand-organs In The Streets.

O Thou Child Of Many Prayers! Life Hath Quicksands, Life Hath Snares! Care And Age Come Unawares!

Every Man Has His Secret Sorrows.

Authors Must Not, Like Chinese Soldiers, Expect To Win Victories By Turning Somersets In The Air.

Look, Then, Into Thine Heart, And Write!

Give What You Have. To Some One, It May Be Better Than You Dare To Think.

Gorgeous Flowerets In The Sunlight Shining, Blossoms Flaunting In The Eye Of Day, Tremulous Leaves, With Soft And Silver Lining, Buds That Open Only To Decay.

To Be Infatuated With The Power Of One's Own Intellect Is An Accident Which Seldom Happens But To Those Who Are Remarkable For The Want Of Intellectual Power. Whenever Nature Leaves A Hole In A Person's Mind, She Generally Plasters It Over With A Thick Coat Of Self-conceit.

I Will Be A Man Among Men; And No Longer A Dreamer Among Shadows.

Stay, Stay At Home, My Heart And Rest; Home-keeping Hearts Are The Happiest, For Those That Wander They Know Not Where Are Full Of Trouble And Full Of Care; To Stay At Home Is Best.

The Wreck Of The Hesperus But The Father Answered Never A Word, A Frozen Corpse Was He.

Oh The Long And Dreary Winter! Oh The Cold And Cruel Winter!

Art Is The Child Of Nature In Whom We Trace The Features Of The Mothers Face.

As Great Pythagoras Of Yore, Standing Beside The Blacksmith's Door, And Hearing The Hammers, As They Smote The Anvils With A Different Note, Stole From The Varying Tones, That Hung Vibrant On Every Iron Tongue, The Secret Of The Sounding Wire. And Formed The Seven-chorded Lyre.

You Would Attain To The Divine Perfection.

Silence Is A Great Peacemaker.

Three Silences There Are: The First Of Speech, The Second Of Desire, The Third Of Thought.

Build Me Straight. O Worthy Master! Staunch And Strong, A Goodly Vessel That Shall Laugh At All Disaster, And With Wave And Whirlwind Wrestle!

Mine Is The Month Of Roses; Yes, And Mine The Month Of Marriages! All Pleasant Sights And Scents, The Fragrance Of The Blossoming Vine, The Foliage Of The Valleys And The Heights. Mine Are The Longest Days, The Loveliest Nights; The Mower's Scythe Makes Music To My Ear; I Am The Mother Of All Dear Delights; I Am The Fairest Daughter Of The Year.

Simplicity Is The Character Of The Spring Of Life, Costliness Becomes Its Autumn; But A Neatness And Purity, Like That Of The Snow-drop Or Lily Of The Valley, Is The Peculiar Fascination Of Beauty, To Which It Lends Enchantment, And Gives What Amiability Is To The Mind.

Day, Like A Weary Pilgrim, Had Reached The Western Gate Of Heaven, And Evening Stooped Down To Unloose The Latchets Of His Sandal Shoon.

Dost Thou Know What A Hero Is? Why, A Hero Is As Much As One Should Say, A Hero.

Art Is Long, And Time Is Fleeting, And Our Hearts, Though Stout And Brave, Still, Like Muffled Drums, Are Beating Funeral Marches To The Grave.

The Life Of A Man Consists Not In Seeing Visions And In Dreaming Dreams, But In Active Charity And In Willing Service.

Behind The Clouds Is The Sun Still Shining.

When Christ Ascended Triumphantly From Star To Star He Left The Gates Of Heaven Ajar.

I Have A Passion For Ballad. . . . They Are The Gypsy Children Of Song, Born Under Green Hedgerows In The Leafy Lanes And Bypaths Of Literature,--in The Genial Summertime.

Softly The Evening Came /with The Sunset/.

A Noble Type Of Good. Heroic Womanhood.

The Dawn Is Not Distant, Nor Is The Night Starless; Love Is Eternal.

Yes, We Must Ever Be Friends; And Of All Who Offer You Friendship Let Me Be Ever The First, The Truest, The Nearest And Dearest.

It Was Autumn, And Incessant Piped The Quails From Shocks And Sheaves, And, Like Living Coals, The Apples Burned Among The Withering Leaves.

As A Fond Mother, When The Day Is O'er, Leads By The Hand Her Little Child To Bed, Half Willing, Half Reluctant To Be Led, And Leave His Broken Playthings On The Floor. Still Gazing At Them Through The Open Door, Nor Wholly Reassured And Comforted By Promises Of Others In Their Stead Which, The More Splendid, May Not Please Him More; So Nature Deals With Us, And Takes Away Our Playthings One By One, And By The Hand Leads Us To Rest So Gently, That We Go Scarce Knowing If We Wish To Go Or Stay, Being Too Full Of Sleep To Understand How Far The Unknown Transcends The What We Know.

For His Heart Was In His Work, And The Heart Giveth Grace Unto Every Art.

O Weary Hearts! O Slumbering Eyes! O Drooping Souls, Whose Destinies Are Fraught With Fear And Pain, Ye Shall Be Loved Again.

Every Great Poem Is In Itself Limited By Necessity, But In Its Suggestions Unlimited And Infinite.

Life Like An Empty Dream Flits By.

Morality Without Religion Is Only A Kind Of Dead Reckoning - An Endeavor To Find Our Place On A Cloudy Sea By Measuring The Distance We Have Run, But Without Any Observation Of The Heavenly Bodies.

For Next To Being A Great Poet Is The Power Of Understanding One.

The Morning Pouring Everywhere, Its Golden Glory On The Air.

A Young Critic Is Like A Boy With A Gun; He Fires At Every Living Thing He Sees. He Thinks Only Of His Own Skill, Not Of The Pain He Is Giving.

I Am More Afraid Of Deserving Criticism Than Of Receiving It.

And So We Plough Along, As The Fly Said To The Ox.

From Labor There Shall Come Forth Rest.

By The Shores Of Gitchee Gumee, By The Shining Big-sea-water, Stood The Wigwam Of Nokomis, Daughter Of The Moon, Nokomis, Dark Behind It Rose The Forest, Rose The Black And Gloomy Pine-trees, Rose The Firs With Cones Upon Them; Bright Before It Beat The Water, Beat The Clear And Sunny Water, Beat The Shining Big-sea-water.

How Beautiful Is Youth! How Bright It Gleams With Its Illusions, Aspirations, Dreams! Book Of Beginnings, Story Without End, Each Maid A Heroine, And Each Man A Friend!

The Atmosphere Breathes Rest And Comfort, And The Many Chambers Seem Full Of Welcomes.

It Is Foolish To Pretend That One Is Fully Recovered From A Disappointed Passion. Such Wounds Always Leave A Scar.

Torrent Of Light And River Of Air, Along Whose Bed The Glimmering Stars Are Seen, Like Gold And Silver Sands In Some Ravine Where Mountain Streams Have Left Their Channels Bare!

They Are Dead; But They Live In Each Patriot's Breast, And Their Names Are Engraven On Honor's Bright Crest.

God Sent His Singers Upon Earth With Songs Of Sadness And Of Mirth, That They Might Touch The Hearts Of Men, And Bring Them Back To Heaven Again.

All Nature ... Is A Respiration Of The Spirit Of God, Who, In Breathing Hereafter Will Inhale It Into His Bosom Again, So That Nothing But God Alone Will Remain.

The Nile, Forever New And Old, Among The Living And The Dead, Its Mighty, Mystic Stream Has Rolled.

Big Words Do Not Smite Like War-clubs, Boastful Breath Is Not A Bow-string, Taunts Are Not So Sharp As Arrows, Deeds Are Better Things Than Words Are, Actions Mightier Than Boastings.

If We Love One Another, Nothing, In Truth, Can Harm Us, Whatever Mischances May Happen.

Love One Another

It Is True, That It Is Not At All Necessary To Love Many Books, In Order To Love Them Much.

The Sun Is Set; And In His Latest Beams Yon Little Cloud Of Ashen Gray And Gold, Slowly Upon The Amber Air Unrolled, The Falling Mantle Of The Prophet Seems.

I Saw The Long Line Of The Vacant Shore, The Sea-weed And The Shells Upon The Sand, And The Brown Rocks Left Bare On Every Hand, As If The Ebbing Tide Would Flow No More.

Live Up To The Best That Is In You: Live Noble Lives, As You All May, In Whatever Condition You May Find Yourselves.

Self Improvement

I Love An Author The More For Having Been Himself A Lover Of Books.

The Mormons Make The Marriage Ring, Like The Ring Of Saturn, Fluid, Not Solid, And Keep It In Its Place By Numerous Satellites.

I Love The Season Well When Forest Glades Are Teeming With Bright Forms, Nor Dark And Many-folded Clouds Foretell The Coming Of Storms.

Ships That Pass In The Night, And Speak Each Other In Passing, Only A Signal Shown, And A Distant Voice In The Darkness; So On The Ocean Of Life, We Pass And Speak One Another, Only A Look And A Voice, Then Darkness Again And A Silence.

Thus Departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha The Beloved, In The Glory Of The Sunset, In The Purple Mists Of Evening, To The Regions Of The Home-wind, Of The Northwest-wind, Keewaydin, To The Islands Of The Blessed, To The Kingdom Of Ponemah, To The Land Of The Hereafter!

To Be Strong Is To Be Happy!

Thus, Seamed With Many Scars Bursting These Prison Bars, Up To Its Native Stars My Soul Ascended! There From The Flowing Bowl Deep Drinks The Warrior's Soul, Skoal! To The Northland! Skoal! Thus The Tale Ended.

They Who Go Feel Not The Pain Of Parting; It Is They Who Stay Behind That Suffer.

I Have You Fast In My Fortress, And Will Not Let You Depart, But Put You Down Into The Dungeon, In The Round-tower Of My Heart, And There Will I Keep You Forever, Yes, Forever And A Day, Till The Walls Shall Crumble To Ruin, And Moulder In The Dust Away!

A Boy's Will Is The Wind's Will, And The Thought's Of Youth Are Long, Long Thoughhts

Welcome, My Old Friend, Welcome To A Foreign Fireside.

As To The Pure Mind All Things Are Pure, So To The Poetic Mind All Things Are Poetical.

Look Upon The Errors Of Others In Sorrow, Not In Anger.

The Smoking Flax Before It Burst To Flame Was Quenched By Death, And Broken The Bruised Reed.

This Will Be A Great Day In Our History; The Date Of A New Revolution - Quite As Much Needed As The Old One. Even Now As I Write They Are Leading Old John Brown To Execution In Virginia For Attempting To Rescue Slaves! This Is Sowing The Wind To Reap The Whirlwind Which Will Come Soon!

The Trees Are White With Dust, That O'er Their Sleep Wave Their Broad Curtains In The South-wind's Breath, While Underneath Such Leafy Tents They Keep The Long, Mysterious Exodus Of Death.

When One Is Truly In Love, One Not Only Says It, But Shows It.

Beautiful In Form And Feature, Lovely As The Day, Can There Be So Fair A Creature Formed Of Common Clay?

If We Could Read The Secret History Of Our Enemies We Should Find In Each Man's Life Sorrow And Suffering Enough To Disarm All Hostility.

Much Must He Toil Who Serves The Immortal Gods.

Look At This Vigorous Plant That Lifts Its Head From The Meadow, See How Its Leaves Are Turned To The North, As True As The Magnet; This Is The Compass-flower, That The Finger Of God Has Planted Here In The Houseless Wild, To Direct The Traveller's Journey. Over The Sea-like, Pathless, Limitless Waste Of The Desert, Such In The Soul Of Man Is Faith.

There's Nothing In This World So Sweet As Love. And Next To Love The Sweetest Thing Is Hate.

Oh, How Beautiful Is The Summer Night, Which Is Not Night, But A Sunless, Yet Unclouded, Day, Descending Upon Earth With Dews And Shadows And Refreshing Coolness! How Beautiful The Long Mild Twilight, Which, Like A Silver Clasp, Unites Today With Yesterday!

Know How Sublime A Thing It Is To Suffer And Be Strong.

Autumn Arrives Like A Warrior With The Stain Of Blood Upon His Brazen Mail. His Crimson Scarf Is Rent. His Scarlet Banner Drips With Gore. His Step Is Like A Flail Upon The Threshing Floor.

What Shall I Say To You? What Can I Say Better Than Silence Is?

Don Quixote Thought He Could Have Made Beautiful Bird-cages And Toothpicks If His Brain Had Not Been So Full Of Ideas Of Chivalry. Most People Would Succeed In Small Things If They Were Not Troubled With Great Ambitions.

Sang In Tones Of Deep Emotion Songs Of Love And Songs Of Longing.

Books Are Sepulchres Of Thought.

How Like They Are To Human Things!

All Your Strength Is In Union, All Your Danger Is In Discord.

The Twilight That Surrounds The Border-land Of Old Romance.

I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day Their Old, Familiar Carols Play, And Wild And Sweet The Words Repeat Of Peace On Earth, Good-will To Men!

I Do Not Believe Anyone Can Be Perfectly Well, Who Has A Brain And A Heart

I Am Weary Of Your Quarrels, Weary Of Your Wars And Bloodshed, Weary Of Your Prayers For Vengeance, Of Your Wranglings And Dissensions

O Gift Of God! O Perfect Day: Whereon Shall No Man Work, But Play; Whereon It Is Enough For Me, Not To Be Doing, But To Be!

I Venerate Old Age; And I Love Not The Man Who Can Look Without Emotion Upon The Sunset Of Life, When The Dusk Of Evening Begins To Gather Over The Watery Eye, And The Shadows Of Twilight Grow Broader And Deeper Upon The Understanding.

The Market-place, The Eager Love Of Gain, Whose Aim Is Vanity, And Whose End Is Pain!

Sweet As The Tender Fragrance That Survives, When Martyred Flowers Breathe Out Their Little Lives, Sweet As A Song That Once Consoled Our Pain, But Never Will Be Sung To Us Again, Is They Remembrance. Now The Hour Of Rest Hath Come To Thee. Sleep, Darling: It Is Best.

The Everyday Cares And Duties, Which Men Call Drudgery, Are The Weights And Counterpoises Of The Clock Of Time, Giving Its Pendulum A True Vibration And Its Hands A Regular Motion; And When They Cease To Hang Upon Its Wheels, The Pendulum No Longer Swings, The Hands No Longer Move The Clock Stands Still.

I Am More Afraid Of Deserving Criticism Than Of Receiving It. I Stand In Awe Of My Own Opinion. The Secret Demerits Of Which We Alone, Perhaps, Are Conscious, Are Often More Difficult To Bear Than Those Which Have Been Publicly Censured In Us, And Thus In Some Degree Atoned For.

In Youth All Doors Open Outward; In Old Age All Open Inward.

Thus At The Flaming Forge Of Life Our Fortunes Must Be Wrought; Thus On Its Sounding Anvil Shaped Each Burning Deed And Thought!

Still Stands The Forest Primeval; But Far Away From Its Shadow, Side By Side, In Their Nameless Graves, The Lovers Are Sleeping.under The Humble Walls Of The Little Catholic Churchyard,in The Heart Of The City, They Lie, Unknown And Unnoticed;daily The Tides Of Life Go Ebbing And Flowing Beside Them,thousands Of Throbbing Hearts, Where Theirs Are At Rest And Forever,thousands Of Aching Brains, Where Theirs No Longer Are Busy,thousands Of Toiling Hands, Where Theirs Have Ceased From Their Labors,thousands Of Weary Feet, Where Theirs Have Completed Their Journey!

The Sky Is Filled With Stars, Invisible By Day.

Love Gives Itself; It Is Not Bought.

The Air Of Summer Was Sweeter Than Wine.

Everyone Says That Forgiveness Is A Lovely Idea Until He Has Something To Forgive.

A Feeling Of Sadness And Longing, That Is Not Akin To Pain, And Resembles Sorrow Only As The Mist Resembles The Rain.

Perhaps The Chief Cause Which Has Retarded The Progress Of Poetry In America, Is The Want Of That Exclusive Cultivation, Which So Noble A Branch Of Literature Would Seem To Require. Few Here Think Of Relying Upon The Exertion Of Poetic Talent For A Livelihood, And Of Making Literature The Profession Of Life. The Bar Or The Pulpit Claims The Greater Part Of The Scholar's Existence, And Poetry Is Made Its Pastime.

Love Keeps The Cold Out Better Than A Cloak.

Standing, With Reluctant Feet, Where The Brook And River Meet, Womanhood And Childhood Fleet!

Let The Dead Past Bury Its Dead!

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